Do I dream?
All small doors, all big hopes.
Do I find in my brain the stuff,
The fungal produce of dead matter?
That tiny bit of life that appears of nowhere,
Crawling like a current, sparking like a lightning.
Looking through old thoughts,
Old cabinets filled with younger clothes.
There is nothing there that could ease the pain,
Of a mutated little left hand.
Disorganization in a way that is unique,
That doesn’t matter if your satisfaction fails.
Can you bring yourself to look at the world,
Then at you,
At the world,
What do you see?